Photo by Nguyen Dang Hoang Nhu
When my father died three years ago, shortly before his ninety-ninth birthday, I received an unusual gift I would not otherwise possess. I had never seriously thought about death. After my father’s funeral, the thought played in my mind on repeat.
Once a seemingly infinite commodity, time began to take on a particular urgency. I became vigilant and hyper-aware of it, like I might attend to a quickening heartbeat. This enhanced awareness, I now realize, was my father’s legacy. It was like receiving a GPS to guide me through the rest of my life. In his last years, he gave me his wisdom, piece by piece, one conversation at a time. Our long conversations, which started when he moved to a long-term care residence and continued until the day he died three years later, rearranged my priorities.
As I became more sensitive to the passage of time, I began wondering how I wanted to be remembered. What lasting memory would I leave my family? I did not want their final memories of me to be of a woman on her deathbed. I wanted to leave something more enduring as my father did. Learning how to die became learning how to live. An important question arose: am I doing enough with the time left in this life?
I tell my family and friends I love them. I strive to do what is out of my comfort zone. Sometimes I talk to strangers on the subway. I use the good dishes. I try to be kind, even with the simplest gesture. And I try to be less cranky. Believe me, I fall short of the ideal every day.
My father had an optimistic disposition, and that’s how I remember him. In the last years of his life, the years when I felt closest to him, you could see in his eyes that he considered every day a gift. He often said he thanked God for the day and prayed to be granted the gift of another.
He never told me how to live my life or expected me to be a certain way. Instead, he taught by example. He unfailingly greeted people warmly and had a firm handshake. He showed me it was important to do my bit for the community and those less fortunate than I was. He was generous with his time and money. He voted in every election and canvassed for those running for elected office. He had strong convictions, even though I did not agree with them all. He was proud of his children and unfailingly told us so. He cherished my mother and stood by her in a relationship that flowed easily with no drama. If only I could emulate all of this.
I sometimes wonder if my father’s death has distorted my memory of him. Death often casts an idealistic light of love on those who are gone and smooths the rough edges. Regardless of how lovable, resilient, and optimistic my father was, he was a human being, and we all have complexities, frailties, prides, and prejudices. I don’t think his death has altered my memory. He was a good force in the world.
A little over a year after my father’s death, I read a story in my local newspaper about Nadia Chaudhri, a young Montreal neuroscientist diagnosed with metastatic ovarian cancer. She was chronicling her experience with the disease on social media, and I immediately began following her on Twitter and Instagram. The post that caught the media’s attention and went viral was a tweet:
“Today is the day I tell my son that I am dying from cancer. Let all my tears flow now so that I can be brave this afternoon. Let me howl with grief now so that I can comfort him.”
Her little boy had just started the first grade, and his mother was in palliative care. With her remaining time, she raised money for a graduate neuroscience fellowship in her name for under-represented students at Concordia University, where she was a professor. And she prepared her young son, who she referred to as my sun, telling him what would happen and that she would always be with him. In a reassuringly beautiful tweet, she showed the picture she drew of him and his father planting her ashes at the base of a serviceberry tree — a tree that blooms continually and changes colours with the seasons.
“I drew this to help my sun visualize my wishes. I hope it will help.”
Her son would always find her there. I teared up reading this.
Nadia lived her life with purpose and courage, the same way she faced death. A friend who works in alumni relations at Concordia told me about her only encounter with Professor Chaudhri. In a snarky tweet, Nadia had complained that a man had yet again received the alumni scholarship. My friend called her, but before she could say anything, Nadia intervened.
“I bet you didn’t get any great nominations from women.”
“Yes, I can’t just make up nominations. They have to come from the community.”
“I’ll take care of that.” And from that year on, Nadia did, nominating worthy female students.
The stories my father told me about his life during our last conversations remain vivid. They are his legacy. His death certificate says he died of natural causes. I like to think he died because his life was complete, all his stories told. His death started an even longer conversation about life and legacy that continues in my head to this day. My father left a roadmap for how I might live my life and a lens through which to see the meaning of my experiences. I have taken his roadmap and I am following it to where it leads.
The Lessons that Matter
What a beautiful gift he gave you - and how movingly you have described it. Thanks for this wonderful essay.
GEORGE
Robert Carl Thoreson Jr, born May 15, 1921. My grandfather was the first Robert Carl Thoreson born April 12, 1898 and was always known as Carl. I was very close to my grandfather and was called Carl’s shadow. My grandmother often remarked again and again, Carl always said you should have been a boy. He was a great guy who could fix anything and taught me to hunt and fish. I also learned to whistle piercingly and loud as well as to walk silently through the woods. As a youngster in my brand new to me blue snowsuit and leftover black galoshes from my brother with big black buckles, I followed Carl everywhere on the farm I grew up on. One day I slipped, tripped and landed with an ugly splash in the cow gutter. Completely soaked in manure, Carl tried to return me to my mom at the back door, but she insisted that Carl hose me off in the milk house first. Eventually I was allowed back into the house, in sopping wet but not smelly condition. Carl and I laughed about my early swimming lesson in the barn.
My dad was always called Bob. Except when his mother would call for him and he was in trouble. Then it was Robert, ROBERT!!!!!!!!!!!! I may have some experience with Mary, MARY GERARD THORESON, YOU BETTER GET IN THIS HOUSE RIGHT NOW!! AND TAKE OFF THOSE FILTHY BOOTS!!!!
My dad didn't read much fiction, more of a history guy. But he loved John Steinbeck. Steinbeck wrote about people that my dad knew from his life experiences. Hard working people that were always just a slip from disaster, crop failure, floods, the manufacturing plant shutting down for good, and so on.
Of Mice and Men is a tale of 2 guys, a small smart guy, George and his friend and obligation, Lennie. Lennie is a huge man who can work 3 men into the ground each and every day but has the mind of a child. He also has a weakness for soft things. My dad is a big guy, 6'4" in his prime. And he worked hard most of his life. So I guess I could have called him Lennie? But that would be a different story.
Certain lines from the book became part of our regular conversations.
Can I pet the rabbits, George?
I like ketchup in my beans, George.
And live off the fat of the land, George.
We still throw those lines out in our talking together.
So as a young adult I teased my dad and always called him George. He was no longer anything but George. This did irritate my mom, definitely a bonus as far as I was concerned. Everyone knew and loved my dad, George.
My dad and I do share a lot in common, humor is one. And my son, Daniel has it as well. We agree the apple didn’t fall far from the tree and it’s a very small orchard. The three of us together is a time of laughter and joy. My family has often been told, You all think you're so damned funny. And we do believe it.
My mom slipped away into the never ending fogs of Alzheimer's. Dad said it was like losing her a little bit each day. And they were such a love match. Married for 62 years,WOW! And very happily. Holding hands and giggling together is one of my most common memories of them together. My mom or dad looking at the other in a rapt and adoring fashion as they told the same stories over and over and over again. I come from a family of storytellers.
My dad's 90th birthday party was a great event. We all wore tie dye and of course, there was cake!! It said HAPPY BIRTHDAY GEORGE.
My mom spent a lot of time asking, Who's George? I cried that day. And laughed. And ate cake. Mom finished the party asleep on the couch with a happy ring of chocolate frosting on her mouth.
Mom died in 2013 and my dad found some way to continue on his journey of life without her. He lived with us for some years until he needed more care than we could provide. He managed to keep his gratitude for life and all the small things he enjoyed, reading, politics so proud that he never voted for a Republican, his grandson, playing bridge, and eating cookies. He never ate a cookie he didn’t like but he kept looking.
Our last visits in hospice care were sad and difficult with an occasional smile as we shared the many memories of a life just weeks short of a century. He asked to come home. He asked for a beer. Can I pet the rabbits, George? Robert Carl Thoreson Jr, died February 23, 2021. Last night I dreamed George came home, hung up his coat and sat at the kitchen table eating cookies. Welcome home, George, welcome home.